


The Call

by Dickbutt



Series: Dickbutt Writes Again [6]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Maybe Ever After, Misuse of Military Radio, Other, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Reader-Insert, Request Fill, love before first sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dickbutt/pseuds/Dickbutt
Summary: "Please. If anyone can read me… we need help.”Gabriel Reyes, against his better judgement, answers a distress call.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Original Request: How about during the Omnic Crisis newly formed Overwatch get's a distress call. It's from a unit that everyone though were wiped out. A bunch of them got trapped in some bunker a have just now managed to repair the communication system. Reyes answers the call and spends the next weeks trying to get to the bunker and talking to/ kinda falling in love with the poor sergeant on the other end of the line, who just wants her unit to be safe. OW gets to them finally and Reyes and Sergeant meet irl.
> 
> It's a venture out of my comfort zone, that's for sure :V
> 
> Use of [Interactive Fics](https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/interactivefics/pcpjpdomcbnlkbghmchnjgeejpdlonli) or any other similar word-replacing add on recommended during this fic. The useage of ‘name blanks’ is brief, but probably jarring. Placeholder used is (l/n) in use for a surname so you know what to substitute. 
> 
> Originally posted at: [Dickbutt Writes Again](http://dickbutt-writes-again.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.

_“Break, break. This is Delta Squadron, requesting assistance. We’ve sustained numerous casualties and are pinned down in a bunker beneath active Omnic forces. I repeat, this is Delta Squadron –“_

Another cry for help, another unfortunate message somehow fallen through to the Overwatch frequencies. Gabriel almost ignores it until the call continues, almost unexpectedly. 

 _“- able to complete our mission objective before falling back to the bunker. The objective was retrieved from the Omnium without suspicion from local Omnic forces, but we were diverted in a subsequent attack en route to the COP. Please. If anyone can read me… we need help.”_

He isn’t sure if it’s mention of a secured objective that piques his interest, or the worn, desperate edge to their voice, but he finds himself reaching for his communicator. His hand hesitates. It’s just another group of soldiers, would just be another handful lost in the war, and Overwatch can only reach so far in its current state. He doesn’t want to give them false hope in thinking they can save them but… Something twists uncomfortably, but he dislodges the lump in his throat.

 He answers. 

“Roger, Delta Squadron, this is Overwatch command, I read you loud and clear. What is your status? Over.” 

After a crackle of static, he almost misses a quiet – hoarse, almost – _Oh thank God._ The line cuts to full clarity.  
_“Overwatch command, this is Sergeant (l/n), acting CO of Delta Squadron. There are 19 of us trapped in the bunker, six injured. Omnic forces are confirmed active outside our location. Over.”_  

It sounds standard, a situation he’d encountered many times throughout the crisis, but the niggling thought at the back of his mind of the _objective_ gives him cause to continue. 

“How long have you held position, sergeant? Over.” 

The connection begins to fizzle, he catches broken ends of words and a _six_ but hardly anything more. He wonders briefly if the line’s been dropped completely before he hears a crackling swear cut in.

“Sergeant, say again.” 

More half-heard cursing before a brief, _“Six days, sir. Communications have been down for the better part of that. The majority of our focus has been on survival and the security of our objective, sir. …Over.”_  

“Sergeant, has there been any further attempt at outside contact?” 

“Affirmative. But you’ve been the first to respond, sir. Been trying for two days straight.” 

Standard voice procedure has all but dropped. He feels something dark coil in his gut. 

“Any attempt to break enemy line?” 

 _“Affirmative, sir. …There were twenty-five of us when we were forced to the bunker.”_  

Gabriel leans back in his seat, massages his temple. Something akin to irritation bubbles up inside him; recently it felt like all the world’s problems just fell into his lap, big or small. A darker part of him thinks of ending the call – again, what was one more lost squadron in the heat of war? 

But he’s already answered. Set himself on this path, if not as a savior, then as a ray of hope, at the very least. It’s not something he can back out of gracefully. But it’s not like he can just drop everything and go rushing in to save a handful of soldiers. He needs a reason, an objective… 

Objective. 

“Sergeant… what did your squadron retrieve from the omnium?" 

 _“…I-I’m sorry, sir?”_  

The voice is hesitant, tired, maybe a little afraid, but he has to justify this, can’t go gallivanting off to play hero on a whim of kindness alone.

“As a superior officer I ask that you tell me what you took from the omnium.” 

He regrets pulling the harsh tone on the already strained sergeant, but he can’t argue the results it gets. 

 _“A-a data packet, right from the heart. Probably about 50 or 60 terabytes. O-of course, we don’t have the equipment on hand to properly analyze it, so the estimation might be off and – “_  

“How are your supplies?” 

The sudden change in questioning throws them off, but Gabriel’s mind is working fast, turning, and he only hopes they can keep up with him. They catch on quickly enough, and through their apparent trepidation breaks a no-nonsense tone.

 _“We’re low on med supplies, unfortunate, given the number of injuried. Munitions are sufficient, weapons all in working order.  Bunker’s power also appears mostly operational.”_ There’s a rise of murmuring in the background. _“…We’ve enough rations to last a month, two –maybe – if we stretch it thin.”_  

 _You shouldn’t have to_ sits on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. _No promises, no promises._ He worries he’s already getting their hopes up by taking the conversation so far. 

“Roger, sergeant, continue to hold position and we will relay with further instruction. Standby, out.” 

He intends to drop the line but he lingers for a moment, just long enough to hear the not-quite-needed reply. 

 _“Wilco, Overwatch command.”_ And then, quietly. _“…Thank you. Sir.”_  

The line, at last, goes silent. 

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, already feeling early pangs of remorse. Should he have even answered that distress call? Someone other than him would have picked up eventually – _surely._ But the hopeful voice of the sergeant, weary, wearing the last dregs of their professionalism… He doesn’t know how to feel about it. And the supposed data packet. Was it even worth the resources it would take to pull this squad out of the fire? Pressure builds behind his eyes, wrapping around his skull. 

He needs to talk to Jack.

 

Jack, ever altruistic, is immediately on board with a rescue attempt. This is good. Gabriel needs someone to play straight man against, to rationalize this snap decision. 

“Yes, but it’s just… It’s 19 people, Jack.” He sighs, swallows down his drink. “You know it as well as I do, ruthless calculus. We can’t save everyone.” 

“Yeah but you said it yourself, Gabe, they have data straight from the omnium. It could be something that turns the tide of the war!” 

Ever the optimist. He always liked that about Morrison. They banter back and forth about it for the better part of an hour. Eventually, Reyes stares down the bottom of his empty glass and sighs, hand gripping it a little more tightly than he intends to. 

“There has to be somebody else we can send out there. They could’ve reached out to anyone.” 

Jack replies instantly, “But they got us.” 

He sighs again, leans his head into the palm of his hand. Jack stares him down, lips pressed into a straight line. 

“…You always planned to go after them, didn’t you?” 

At this, the Overwatch commander laughs, shaking his head. “You could always see right through me, huh, Jack?” 

The blonde shrugs. “It’s not like we’ve known each other for years or anything.” 

Gabriel laughs again, calls him an asshole, and stands. He’s got to make a few calls, after all. 

 

“Delta Squadron, this is Commander Reyes of Overwatch, do you read?” 

Radio silence for several seconds before a familiar voice cuts in, jittery, but clear. _“Overwatch, Sergeant (l/n), reading you five, sir. Send your instruction, sir."_  

He doesn’t miss the obvious nerves. He takes a deep breath. 

“Hold position for rescue. We will initiate 12 hour radio checks as to your status and will relay further instruction as necessary.” He pauses, can tell they’re listening by the immediate silence, yet the distant background noise. He prepares to dive in to the hard news. “Approach to your position may be delayed.  Current ETA is six weeks, do you copy? 

There’s a dissentious murmur that rises in the background of the call, but it hushes quickly. _“…Wilco, sir. Will stand by for evacuation in approximate six weeks.”_

It flashes before him – the potential time in-between, the grunt work and side-ops that have to be taken care of. Anything that could go wrong in the meantime. The higher ups don’t care about a score of soldiers, don’t even want him to (ruthless calculus, after all), but it’s the data packet they’ve got their eyes on. But whatever will get the job done. 

The call ends in standard form, everything out in the open, but he feels the weight pressing on him even harder.

 

* * *

 

It’s simple enough, initially. The calls go out to Delta Squadron exactly 12 hours apart, rarely late, despite the constant time-zone hopping that was required of the Overwatch strike team. It’s rare that Gabriel himself did not handle the check-ins; even rarer that the sergeant isn’t the one to answer. They’re entirely status updates, the squad’s supply levels, the bunker’s security, or other pertinent information. As such, they’re usually short. Overall, it’s hardly more than a small change to Gabriel’s routine. 

He finds himself questioning, though – but never aloud – that whenever they move closer to the squad’s position, why they just don’t take care of it? The longer they wait, the higher the risk becomes, and he can’t help that nervous train of thought. But there’s too much red tape involved, and though he’s the designated leader of Overwatch, it still isn’t his place to fight the chain of command that goes farther than even he. 

He waits it out. Works hard to distract himself; because it’s what he needs to do. Fights to not let the hopeful voice on the other end – your voice – get to him, because in a war, distractions cannot be afforded. 

Then suddenly as it all started, there’s a change. 

 

It’s late into the night when the call comes in, passed over to him (still awake by merit of stress and caffeine) on a request for ‘Overwatch-Actual.’ He shakes off what latent drowsiness had been hanging on him and answers, somewhat surprised to hear you on the other end. He or another agent had always been the one to initiate the check-in calls. He checks his time zones again, feeling ill-at-ease with the unexpected outreach. 

“This is Commander Reyes. What’s wrong, sergeant? Are you in danger?” 

A hesitance to speak up. He can almost hear you swallow, hear the chatter in your teeth. _“N-no, Commander Reyes, we… I just thought…"_  

Your stuttering grates on his weary nerves and he can’t help snapping at you to spit it out. 

 _“…I-I’m sorry, sir, I’ll –“_  

Instant regret. Your voice is thick with emotion and he can’t help the kneejerk empathetic reaction he feels in yelling at you to hold on. He hears you hiccup. 

“Tell me, (l/n).” 

A shaky inhale. Gabriel leans on his hand and waits for you to speak. 

 _“…I lost two of my men to their injuries today. We just… there just weren’t enough supplies or-or experienced personnel and they…”_ A sharp breath this time; he can almost feel it in his own lungs. _“It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I’m not supposed to be in charge,  the lieutenant got killed halfway through the mission, and I got stuck with it on the chain of command and- and I’ve gone and fucked it up just like I was afraid I would. I’m… I’m supposed to be responsible for these people, get them home safe and now over half of them are dead and we’re all just sitting ducks in this hole in the –"_  

“ _Sergeant!”_

His harsh, reprimanding tone halts your distressed rambling with a wet gasp. He squeezes his eyes shut as he hears you hold sobs back, struggling to keep your breathing in check. 

“(l/n), calm down. Take a deep breath.” He pauses, listens, as you do as he says. “This isn’t your fault. There was no way you could have seen things going like this. You’re… you’re doing the best you can, given your circumstances. You’ve brought your team this far, haven’t you?” 

The line goes quiet for a long time, but for your breathing (barely audible) on the other end, he’d think dropped. 

 _“…I’m afraid,”_ comes the eventual reply. Your voice is as quiet and small as he’s ever heard and he can feel something lurch inside his chest. _“…I don’t want us to die here, sir.”_  

And he recognizes it, knows the sentiment, the base fear of any soldier stuck far from home. The instinctual fear of dying all people possess regardless. It’s all laid out before him, that you’re minutes from falling apart – which would do absolutely no good for your already haggard team. He thinks quickly. 

“Where are you from?” he asks suddenly, scrabbling for anything to keep your on the line – keep you occupied. 

Perplexed, you answer the question softly; speak more at his gentle coaxing. It’s the start of a long conversation. You talk of anything but the war, where you grew up, what you did before the military, things you miss about home. It’s a good distraction, almost pleasant, even as he can hear your voice grow hoarse the longer he keeps you on the line. He hardly looks at the clock past the first hour of talking, doesn’t even feel tired anymore. 

Eventually, a quiet beeping, like an alarm, sounds in the background. You give a startled laugh, which he sleepily mirrors out of reflex. 

 _“Oh, it’s time for check-in.”_  

He laughs again, leans his head on his desk, lays his voice on thick. “Well then, sergeant, what’s your status? Anything changed?” 

The genuine laugh he gets in return is worth it and he feels warmth bloom in his chest at the sound. 

 _“No sir, all clear.”_ He hears you clear your throat, fight off more laughter. _“Any further instruction pending the next check-in, sir?”_  

He sighs, smiling. “Get some rest, sergeant.” 

_“…You too, sir.”_

The call ends. He sits up for a while longer, before going to sleep with a lighter heart.

  

* * *

 

He doesn’t know when the shift happens, not specifically. Doesn’t notice when he drops using your rank completely, doesn’t notice – or care – that you use ‘sir’ with less frequency, pick up using Reyes instead. The check ins start dragging on for longer than they should, once the actual status update is completed, from a few minutes to upwards of an hour – when he can afford the time. It keeps your mind off of things, he argues to himself, would use as an excuse if it ever came up from anyone else (though it never does). And if he’s at least a bit more honest with himself, it helps to keep his mind off the worse parts as well. 

Eventually, he reasons that he can afford an indulgence this small; that comforting himself with soft laughter on the other side of the planet is a reason to keep fighting. That he may or may not be growing a little attached to the faceless person whose laughter that is, well… He can deal with that later. 

He’s startled, eventually, when the one who answers the call is a member of your squad, rather than the voice he’s grown so familiar with. He doesn’t want to question it, but for a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, growing slowly more insistent. But he sits, listens to your subordinate give the report, and almost, _almost_ allows the call to end before his mouth runs faster than his mind and he asks after you. There’s hesitation on the other line that grabs on to the nerve of worry and _pulls_. 

After several painstaking seconds, they laugh, a sound at odds with Gabriel’s kneejerk emotional response. 

 _“Sarge is out cold sleeping, been awake for a couple’a days straight. …You wanna talk to ‘em?”_  

Before he can say yes, there’s a shuffling on the other end, and your voice cuts in, dulled at the edge with sleep. 

 _“S…sorry, Reyes,”_ you say, half-yawning. _“I slept right through the check-in time. Did you get our report alright?”_  

His response is terse, and you must pick up on this right away, because your voice is almost teasing. 

 _“Hmm, were you worried about me?”_  

 _Yes,_ is the immediate thought, followed swiftly by a desire to say no, but what comes out is an uncertain, “…Maybe a little.” 

Your laugh fills him with a burst of warmth, even if it is at his expense. Feels that attachment sink a little deeper.                                                              

He must seem different to his friends, somehow, given Ana’s soft smiles in his direction, the glances exchanged between her and Jack whenever they think he’s stopped paying attention; the similar behavior from the rest of the team. Nothing’s ever said, but they must know; he’s sure Jack is dying to rile him up about it. A small part of him finds he doesn’t mind, and oddly enough, the thought isn’t alarming. 

He tells you stories about them from time to time as the weeks pass. And after a particularly lighthearted one, where you eventually reply that you’d like to meet them someday, he offhandedly mentions that once you’re out of the bunker and the entire situation’s resolved, he’d love to take you for a drink to do just that. 

He freezes up, too late to take the words back. It feels like he’s said too much, or taken a step too far, because you’ve gone quiet again, like you do when you’re thinking (or afraid). 

“It would be nice to see you. …When all this is over, of course.”

The simple admission sends his mind tumbling down a path unbidden – taking you to meet his team as he’d said, quiet outings alone, a body warm in his bed, imagined affections for a person he’s never seen, before he physically has to shake his head to stop the train of thought. His heart still races. It would be easy to de-escalate the situation, to step back, but let it never be said that Gabriel Reyes backs down from anything.

“Yeah.” And he lets himself sink into the feeling – content. “It’d be real nice.”

 

* * *

 

Things can’t stay easy forever. They’re closing in on week six, and when the call doesn’t go through – for the first time since the entire operation had begun – he should have known. It takes two more attempts to get through, and something inside of Gabriel grows frantic at each failure. 

“Delta Squadron this is Overwatch, respond!” 

Static at last cuts in, harsh and grating and he struggles to maintain the signal. At last, he can hear voices on the other end. 

“(l/n)?” 

A long, low-pitched sound, then something recognized as a slow exhale. 

 _“…They know.”_  

The two words chill his blood. Distantly, if he listens closely enough, a steady rumbling resounds, but its overpowered by static. He has to keep level. 

“Have you been compromised?” 

 _“No, but…”_ You pause for long enough that he grows increasingly worried, wonders if he’s lost connection again. _“What little our sensors can tell us, the omnics are zoning in on our location… collectively. We can attempt to  – “_  

An explosion sounds in the far background, sending a louder burst of whistling static over the radio. Gabriel yells your name at least twice, attempting to gain a response. Eventually, your voice cuts back in. 

 _“-ll move to the lower level of the bunker and fortify what we can. We will not –“_ Something catches in your voice and you pause again. _“Will not allow the data to fall back to the omnics. We will secure the data packet, at any cost.”_  

He doesn’t like the finality of your tone, the heavy weight _at any cost_ bears. All the words he wants to yell catch in his throat to form a knot; your life should matter more than the mission, you’re more important than the data, damn it all and give it up to the omnics if it means you’ll _live._  

(He’s almost shaken by the realization of this intent.) 

He swallows it all down. The mission above anything else. He should know that better than anyone. 

“…Understood, sergeant. Security of the data takes utmost priority. Relay updates with the next check-in.” 

 _“Wilco, sir. Delta Squadron, out.”_  

The line goes silent, hanging in the sudden emptiness. He leans heavy on his desk; he didn’t miss the way your voice kept cracking at the edges of words. He knows the way you speak by now, knows you’re afraid as you ever were. He doesn’t understand why you think you aren’t cut out for leadership – your professionalism in the line of fire speaks volumes. 

He’d have to tell you i- _when_ he gets the chance. 

 

All things go down from there. 

A follow up attack by the omnics takes out one of the bunker’s auxiliary generators, leaving power a more precious commodity than ever. As a result, the check-ins are left more infrequent to conserve energy, to every 24 hours. The calls are kept  as short as they were at the start – perhaps shorter. Status, supplies, survival, soldiers lost. He hears your voice wearing thinner every time. 

And you start to withdraw. The comfortable familiarity returns to cool professionalism; the distance widening between you in the face of what may come. He doesn’t dare to call you out on it, knows he’s gotten himself in too deep and it’s his own fault for letting it happen. 24 hour check ins start to stretch closer to 48, closing in on the seventh week, and he knows you and your team won’t last much longer.  

It must seem out of nowhere, at least to anyone who hasn’t been paying attention, that Gabriel snaps, demands that they be granted lease to chase your trapped squadron. He doesn’t let his personal feelings cloud his judgment, but _drive_ him, giving him the will necessary to argue for your squad’s survival – for you. The data packet becomes the deciding point, just enough for the UN to concede to a full rescue operation led by him. 

His relief is visceral. 

But when he attempts to call and give the news, the signal never goes through, even after subsequent attempts. 

You’ve gone dark.

 

* * *

  

Three days. 

It takes them three more days to get to the LZ, and when he stares out at the sea of enraged omnics waiting between them and the bunker, his heart clenches painfully in his chest, then settles. He clenches his jaw, readies his guns, determined. Jack remains at his side in the carrier, and if he notices his nerves (which no doubt he does) he says nothing, and for this, he’s grateful. He doesn’t have time for a Golden Boy speech, not with so much at stake – more than he cares to admit to anyone. 

As the ship makes its approach, the hatch eases open for the drop and he gets his first full look at the area. 

Like a nightmare realized he finds himself looking out at a sea of omnics – not unlike battlefields he’s seen before, but newly horrifying for the fact they’re single-mindedly seeking out a specific target: The bunker. The data packet. You. It’s kind of a sad blessing that the area is likely uninhabited – decimated, definitely; mostly ruins remain of whatever infrastructure had once been here. Any people living here had fled or died months ago. 

One by one his team nods to him, and distantly he registers acknowledging them back. 

Mostly, he remembers dropping in how he usually does – guns blazing. 

The omnics are obviously not expecting outside resistance, especially not with Overwatch’s cloaked approach. Their focus has him realizing how important that data packet must really be. They don’t pay them much mind – not outside of individual self-defense – and it feels like more of the same, more of what he’s already been doing for… years, almost. He could practically fight like this in his sleep; he’s sure much of the team feels the same, but… 

The stakes feel higher now, for a number of reasons. 

As Reinhardt charges gleefully through another line of omnics, mowing them down, he hears Ana through the comm, shouting over the sounds of heavy artillery. 

“I’ve got visual on the bunker.” 

An omnic explodes nearby under the barrage from one of Torbjörn’s turrets.

“How’s it look, Ana?” 

The length of her hesitation is almost enough to distract him; he blows a hole through an omnic in the space it takes. 

“…It is not good, Gabriel. It looks as though the omnics have broken through.” 

On cue, a dark plume of smoke erupts skyward from the direction of the bunker and an icy spike of fear shoots through him. He signals his team to fall in with him, determined to make a push for the bunker before the worst can happen, and destroy any omnics that lay in his path. Ana remains on the fringes of the battlefield, keeping them updated through her scope, her impeccable aim handling any omnics that threaten to break through. 

But it isn’t enough. Though they’ve cut a thick swath through to the bunker, omnic opposition remains steadfast, and the sound of another explosion cuts through the din, followed by the shriek of metal grinding against metal. A plume of fire shoots into the sky, not far from where they stand, and the ground rumbles. 

Suddenly, like animals before a storm, the omnics begin to spread out and scatter, leaving the scene as though they know something the humans don’t – which in all honesty is likely. They’re shot down just the same. And all the while, the rumbling continues, a noise building in intensity until at last, there’s a break. 

The surface levels of the bunker collapse in a billowing cloud of smoke and debris, and Gabriel becomes deaf to all but the cacophony of falling wreckage, the distant shouts of his allies – and those of the people he intended to save. He runs forward without thought,  Jack and Reinhardt at his six, as the remainder of the team repels the half-retreating omnics. There’s been another drop of personnel, right on the scene of the bunker, just as the main body of the omnic forces begin their retreat. He hangs back with his team as they’re driven off; feels Jack’s hand on his shoulder that he can’t help but shake off. It isn’t the time for that. 

The first press into the remains of the bunker finds three corpses and Gabriel turns his head, desperately trying to refute the idea that any of them could be you. He doesn’t know what you look like, and regret starts to edge in on his senses as he fails to avoid wondering if he ever will. Around him, soldiers and medical personnel alike pick off remaining omnics and scour the ruins for survivors. He remains where he is, attempting to maintain composure. 

He isn’t quite sure yet how to handle the thought of you actually dying. It had seemed so far away an idea until it started staring him in the face. 

The first of the survivors – a pair of injured, slightly delirious soldiers – are escorted from the rubble, injured and malnourished, squinting against the light. He doesn’t want to rush them, wants to give them the space they need following such a harrowing experience, but he can’t help asking after you. The response is in the negative; they haven’t seen their sergeant in hours, since the bulk of the omnics fell upon the bunker and broke through. 

He tries to not be disheartened at the response, glad at least that _somebody_ has made it out of the nightmare alive. Any lives saved should be a victory won, but he can’t help the unease gnawing at him. 

It’s selfish, but it’s something he can’t quite fight off. 

Four more survivors and a set of bodies are all that’s recovered from the depths of the bunker. A team scours the insides through the wreckage and find nothing. Something painful burrows its way into Gabriel’s heart and he tries not to flinch against it. They did what they could – it’s all that could be asked of them. 

“Gabriel! Here!” 

He gives a start at Reinhardt’s call. He shakes himself from his reverie, spots the man waving him toward a pile at the edge of the bunker’s ruins. 

He jogs over, already expecting more bad news as Reinhardt works with Jack and a few other soldiers to move a fallen slab of concrete barricade. The imposing man hardly needs the assistance, he’s sure, given his Crusader armor, but it’s still good to see the teamwork; he joins them in the effort. The concrete slides free with ease and is lifted up and away from the indentation in the ground it had become makeshift seal to. Loose chunks of stone tumble to the ground as Gabriel looks at what they’ve uncovered. 

And there, underneath the hefted slab of stone, lays a form curled protectively around an object yet unseen. For an instant, he believes they’ve only turned up another body, but there comes a cough, soft at first, then rougher over the seconds, shuddering through their whole frame. The figure uncurls, still trembling and noticeably injured, and attempts to sit up, but can only push themselves up halfway before collapsing. Their head lifts weakly and they stare up at him, eyes decidedly unfocused, and slowly, they outstretch their arm. 

In their trembling hand they hold a data drive. 

“Objective secured, sir,” you choke out, and his heart _stops._  

A face to the voice at last – and you’re _alive._ Bleeding and battered, but breathing, and his chest heaves a breath of immediate relief, though it’s a matter of keeping things that way before he can truly relax. Though he can’t quite tell if what he feels is really just relief or something more. 

His fists clench at his side – he finds it harder by the moment to resist rushing to your side, even after a pair of medics swarm at you, checking your injuries. You aren’t long for the waking world, he can tell, and you’re definitely in need of medical care, but still, his lips twist halfway into a smile. 

“Good work, Sergeant.” 

 

* * *

  

The warm glow of the sunset filters through the slats of the blinds, painting the simple hospital room in golden stripes. A dozen flower arrangements or so sit as a larger shadow at the base of the window, and the light breeze carried in fills the room with their fragrance. You sigh, glad at last to have your arms free of needles and tubing, deemed healthy enough to go without constant dosage and fluids, your injuries well on their way to healing.  

With luck, you’d be out in another day or so. 

Your fingertips glide over the datapad, lips quirked into a small smile as you read the news headlines: BOTS DRIVEN BACK, TURNING THE TIDE OF WAR, OMNIC CRISIS: THE FINAL DAYS. Story after story lauds Overwatch as the saviors of the planet and you can’t help but agree; they did save you too, after all. (Though you’d rather not know your story, maybe something shameful like 30 SOLDIERS GO IN, 6 COME OUT. Or maybe something even less flattering. You don’t like thinking about it.) You continue to browse articles when you’re interrupted by a gentle rap on your door. 

You wonder briefly who it can be. You’ve already been visited by countless of your superior officers, all shaking hands and congratulatory remarks. A couple members of your recovered squad have also swung by; the families of those less fortunate seldom visited in person, but a corner of your hospital room was piled with letters, cards, and small gifts. 

But you look to your windowsill, at the flowers piled there, and think of someone else who’d yet to stop by. As a lauded war-hero, it must be hard to find the time. 

He peeks his head in, and you realize you’ve been sitting in silence for several seconds too long, which causes your face to warm. He gives a start at your sudden eye contact, and neither of you speaks for several seconds. You’d hardly been aware of his presence the first time you’d ‘met’, officially, given your state, and had resorted to the few pictures you could find. They hardly measure up to the real thing. He clears his throat. 

“…May I come in?” 

You nod, reduce the datapad to a more inert state and sit up fully. A grin splits your face when you see he’s carrying a poorly hidden bouquet of flowers. He holds them more fully behind his back at your focused attention, keeps his eyes pointedly away from your windowsill. His steps into the room are slow and heavy, but you watch him with patient eyes. He’s a lot less confident, it seems, when face-to-face. He clears his throat again, comes to stand at your bedside. 

“So… I heard they’re offering you a promotion, in light of your service.” 

“Oh, are they now?” You offer, coyly. You’d half-assumed, given your superiors’ behavior, but they were notoriously tight-lipped. “…’Bout time, the bastards.” 

He laughs, a sound much, _much_ improved by the lack of radio filter. 

“Well, you deserve it.” At last, he proffers his poorly-kept secret, and you gently retrieve the flowers from his grasp. “Congratulations.” 

You admire the bouquet for a moment, no less lovely than the others he’d sent while he’d been unable to visit,  then realize he’s staring at you, maybe expectantly, but maybe… Your fingertips rub the plastic wrapping of the flowers carefully as words unspoken hang in the air between you and Gabriel. He shifts from one foot to the other, definitely out of his element; as you presumed, he was much less confident in person. 

At last, you smile again, and lean over to place the flowers with the rest on your windowsill. 

“Oh… I’m sure it’d be nice, higher on the food chain and all, but I was thinking along another line…” 

This intrigues him enough to prompt a verbal response. “Oh?” 

“Ahh, y’know, just…” You stare up at him through your lashes, lips pursed. “Maybe I oughta join you in Overwatch instead. I mean, if you’ll have me.” 

The mountains of paperwork it would require and potential stonewalling aside, Gabriel’s jaw goes slack and there comes a gleam to his eye that you can’t quite recognize. He laughs again, breathlessly, a sound you’ve grown to love, and you smile broadly in return.


End file.
